


carry me anew

by necrotype



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/pseuds/necrotype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle, things work themselves out, mostly through the stubbornness of Dwarves (a short fix-it fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	carry me anew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilfirin_estel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilfirin_estel/gifts).



The halls of his ancestors were empty. The rocky walls smelled like home, and his kin—vaguely recognizable in the crowds of Dwarrows—kept close for comfort, but Kíli was alone here. Fíli held him close for some time, crying with him as brothers do, and he stayed near even when the bitter tears stopped. Though his brother had not left his side, Kíli had not seen Thorin in a long while; within minutes of awakening in these halls, surrounded by loved ones, the Dwarf had retreated to grieve alone. His uncle’s eyes were hollow and wet, and the unhappy twist of his lips was entirely familiar to him.

“Nadadith,” Fíli said softly, clasping a hand calloused from swords on Kíli’s shoulder, “I am sorry.” He paused, mouth open slightly while searching for more words to say. “I’m sorry,” he said again instead. Kíli did not speak, and the knot in his throat continued to pain him.

While he was healed entirely, battle wounds and blemishes erased from his skin, the taste of blood in his mouth was fresh, and sorrow clung warmly to him like a cloak. His last words were a knife to the chest. Amrâlimê—she didn’t know what he meant after all, did she? And she could be dead on the battlefield without knowing his love, heavy and consuming. These halls would not lead him to her, however; Mahal’s children were closed off.

Eventually, Kíli wiped away angry tearstains on his cheeks. His muscles were sore from this slumped position against the stone wall, and his fingers itched in want of an arrow. He was light-headed, drained and numb, but a familiar recklessness was building up in him. With a firm nod, he stood in a rush, knocking Fíli in the process.

“Brother,” Kíli rasped, throated scratching around the word. “Are Elves not in these Halls themselves?” Fíli’s nose wrinkled, and his face twisted into a suspicious look. The silence between them was tangible, and it seemed that Fíli was at a loss for words.

“We can’t reach them,” he finally said, carefully and slowly. Kíli pushed at him with a heavy boot.

“But they are here!” he insisted. “And Mahal can reach them.”

Fíli shook his head, delicately-made braids swinging. “Are you Mahal now, nadadith?” Kíli shoved at him again, but his lips were beginning to curl into a smile. Excitement coursed through his veins, and he reached down to pull Fíli up by the fur of his coat.

“Don’t act so flippant!” Kíli remembered their younger years, how he would plot some trick and Fíli would always go along, even when the plan was utterly foolish and doomed to fail from the start. Fíli had always been a thinker, always one for the more careful plans, but he could never say no; they were brothers after all. 

A swift kick to Fíli’s shin made him scowl darkly, but there was no malice in his words. “Do you propose we talk to Mahal?” Kíli eased into a relaxed posture, clasping Fíli’s shoulder more warmly. His brother smiled crookedly at him, the grief all but gone from their faces.

“I can’t live with myself if I don’t try to find her.” Kíli’s voice was soft. “So I will do whatever is necessary. Our Maker is here somewhere, after all.” 

Fíli snorted. “We’re not alive, if you recall.” He yelped as Kíli kicked at him again. “And how can we convince him to listen to us?”

A warmth blossomed in Kíli’s chest. “Ah, brother, you forget,” he said, and a small chuckle wormed its way into his words. “I am quite stubborn.”

-

At the broken gates of Erebor, there sat a Hobbit, dirty-faced and silent as the brisk wind tousled his hair. Tauriel recognized him, from what seemed like ages ago, when the Dwarves escaped in empty wine barrels down the river. His trembling hands were in constant motion, running some small object over the bloody palms, and every few moments he would look down, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

When she stood before him, almost unsure of how her feet brought her to this spot, he looked up at her hunched and bruised form. His eyes were strangely unfocused and red-rimmed, but he peered at her curiously all the same. She wondered if that was some recognition in his kind eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said after a pause. His hands didn’t slow in their motions.

Tauriel sat without much grace; she was too tired, too grievous, too injured to attempt such a thing. The tears on her cheeks were ice in the wind. “Indeed, we haven’t. I am Tauriel, of—” She stopped when the words would not come; she had no claim to that home anymore. “Tauriel,” she repeated simply.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” and though the words were hollow, he attempted a small smile for her, and he bowed deeply. “Though my service won’t be much now.” He laughed without humor, straightening up.

Around them, night was beginning to close in. Tauriel was glad; the bodies strewn around the mountain were better hidden under the starless dark, but the air grew ever colder. 

“Will you not return with your kin?” Bilbo asked, motioning to the departing Elves by Dale. Even in the night, their bloodstained armor glistened clearly. Tauriel watched them coolly; their lamenting songs, in the birdsong tongue, travelled easily over the distance between them, but she didn’t feel compelled to join. The rock beneath her, thrumming with the deep mourning of the Dwarves, gave better comfort.

“No, I think not.” Did Legolas travel with them, or did her sworn twin leave after he found her on the rocks? “I have no home with them.” Tauriel fixed Bilbo with a sad stare, which his own face mirrored in understanding.

“My own home is lost to me,” Bilbo admitted, and the words escaped him like a sigh. He gestured behind him, to the mountain and the Dwarves still singing below the carven rock. “But I don’t think I can stay here much longer.” He let out humorless laugh and tutted gently, rocking his hands together. “Oh, how silly I sound, when I’m still lucky to be alive! We’ll be okay, after all.”

Tauriel looked down at her own hands, where the blood had dried cold against her flesh. She looked over at her companion, smiling despite herself in the face of his hope. “The world moves on,” she replied in a half-whisper, running a hand over the fractured bone in her leg. 

“The road never ends,” Bilbo said, rubbing at his reddish eyes.

They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the sun finally dip below the horizon. Ravens screamed news and gossip above them, and the movement of searchers on the battlefield slowed to a stop. “The thing in your hand—what is it?” Tauriel watched as he jumped, startled, and his cheeks filled with color.

“Oh, this?” Bilbo’s voice wavered, and he gave her a watery smile. “It’s a silly, little thing.” He opened his hands up and showed her a small acorn. “I think I’ll plant it in my garden.”

Tauriel reached out to gently close his small hand over it. His fingers were icy under hers. “It is lovely.” Some of the pressure in her chest eased, and the night felt warmer as they listened the song of the Dwarves draw to a close.

-

The Lord Aulë had a face too glorious, too bright to look directly at, so instead Kíli studied the ground at his feet; it was made of good rock, as befit the forge of their Maker. All of the words he wished to say left him in an instant, and he stood silently as Mahal set down his great hammer. 

“My son, have you nothing to say?” said Mahal, and his voice was a gentle avalanche that made Kíli tremble before him. “I know that speech comes easily to you.”

Kíli looked up, before tearing his eyes away from the kind face; though, it wasn’t truly a face, but instead something made of light his mind couldn’t make sense of properly. “Is she here?” His voice shook at the start, but it was firm by the end.

Mahal reached out with a sigh like a storm, and his warm hand engulfed Kíli entirely. “Inùdoy, do not let this grief consume you. You know she is not allowed into my Halls.”

The urge to pull away from the smith almost overtook him, but Kíli rooted himself still, even as he thrummed with anger. “Then where is she?”

“The Halls of my brother ever drift in this world,” Mahal answered instead. “And today, they drift away from us; tomorrow, they may return, and no one but Námo knows how they will flow. Always, the doors to his Halls are closed.”

“Is she there?” Kíli asked impatiently. The hand at his back stroked gently, tugging at his wild hair and sparse braids. When Mahal did not answer, Kíli pressed forward with questions again, as was his nature. “You are allowed to tell me, or do you choose to keep silent? But if it’s okay for me to know, then please answer me: did she die in the battle, or did she go home with her kin?”

“My brother does not let the Elves leave his Halls so easily, my son,” Mahal said, cradling Kíli against his form. The movement felt like the shifting of mountains. “His doors are not like mine. Only one has passed back into the world, but it will not happen again. When this world ends, the Elves will pass back through the threshold of the doors, but not before.” 

“I asked, is she there?” Kíli repeated, lifting his chin to stare at his Maker in the face. The world went dark a moment later, as his eyes burned from the sight, but he thought he saw a smile before the vision was ripped from him. He grit his teeth in pain, but even unseeing he looked up at his Maker without flinching away.

Mahal sighed and pressed a burning kiss against Kíli’s forehead. “Such a stubborn Dwarrow,” he said, not unkindly. “How brave and loyal you are, inùdoy. Aye, she lives still.”

Kíli beamed and laughed; he could feel happy tears on his cheeks. “Then there is hope!”

“But,” the smith murmured, “you are dead.”

“Ah!” Kíli chuckled. “And yet even you said that your doors are not like your brother’s.”

Mahal let out a booming laugh.

-

Kíli awoke with a strangled gasp and found himself in a warm bed, bandaged and alive. Beside him came a shout of alarm, and he turned to see Balin falling to the stone ground. In another nearby bed, Fíli jerked to life, already smiling as he opened his eyes, and around them Dwarrows lurched in shock.

“Nadadith, you are the most unreasonable of Dwarrows.” 

“Perish the thought,” Kíli said, absentminded as he took in his appearance. He was garbed in the most formal of clothing, and his hands were clasped around his worn bow. “Were we about to be buried?” he cried, jumping from the bed, bow still in hand.

“Since you were dead!” Balin snapped. He stood stiffly, rubbing at his eyes and blinking. With a heavy thud, Fíli too leapt from his bed, making a long-suffering noise. Their uncle was in another room, it seemed, as they could hear him shouting for their burglar even through layers of stone; his shouts mingled with others as they passed by.

“And how,” Balin said, slowly and narrow-eyed. “Are you alive?”

“Mahal works in mysterious ways, my friend.” Kíli clasped his arm roughly, pulling him into a tight hug which Fíli quickly joined. “But first, I must ask: where is Tauriel?”

-

 **Khuzdul translations:**  
Nadadith – little brother  
Amrâlimê – my love  
Inùdoy – my son


End file.
